


the threads that bind us

by everythingislove (straykid)



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-02 09:16:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14541525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straykid/pseuds/everythingislove
Summary: The silver thread appears on his third birthday, tied perfectly around his wrist. He doesn’t remember much about the moment apart from his mother’s tears, and the way his father’s eyes screamed ‘disappointment.’Or: another soulmates au





	the threads that bind us

**Author's Note:**

> hiii. so i’ve been on a break from all social media (including ao3) to do some self-care. i’m still not officially back yet, but i really needed a creative outlet today and this was the product of that. i hope you enjoy!

The silver thread appears on his third birthday, tied perfectly around his wrist. He doesn’t remember much about the moment apart from his mother’s tears, and the way his father’s eyes screamed _disappointment._ There’s another memory, blurry and barely there, of his own frosting covered fingers reaching out to touch it—and Lea smacking his wrist before he could.

When he’s older, he learns that the thread is a connection to his soulmate; the person he’s destined to spend forever with. His teacher says that the threads are a product of evolution. His mother says it’s God.

He also learns that the threads are different colors, meant to tell you something about your soulmate before you meet them. Purple means they’re artistic. Blue means they’re athletic. Yellow means they’re optimistic. And silver—

Isak’s thread is silver because his soulmate is a man.

It takes him a long time to be okay with that. He’s always thinking of the passages his mother reads to him before bed, and his father’s comments about how “fucking gay” the new guy working at the grocery store is. He doesn’t miss the looks of pity people send him and his parents when they take note of the color of his thread, or how his sister seems to wear a permanent blush when they’re in public together.

And because he loves his family, he tries to convince himself that he can change. He dates Sara in middle school, and pretends that kissing her isn’t the equivalent of kissing a cold fish. At night, he squeezes his eyes shut and wills his thread to turn any other color.

Isak masters the art of fake smiles and a faux aura of confidence. When he moves on to his first year at Nissen, he earns himself the reputation of a ladies man in spite of his thread and the fact that he’s only ever kissed one girl. It’s everything he’s spent years striving for, to be more than _the gay boy you know the one with the silver thread_ , except he’s miserable.

His father has been gone for months, his mother is hardly lucid, and Lea fucked off to attend university in London years ago. Most of the friends he had last year are either at different schools or have found different squads, and the few that haven’t (Eva and Jonas) are too self-consumed to notice the shit-show his life has become.

He’s alone.

-

But not really.

When there was nothing else, there was always Even. He just didn’t know it yet.

-

On a cold January evening while Isak is ignoring Eva’s ranting texts about her and Jonas’ relationship issues, the thread starts to tremble. It sends a ticklish sort of feeling through his forearm, and a chill down his spine.

This… it isn’t normal. Threads are one-sided until you actually meet your soulmate, which Isak definitely has not. When you solidify the bond in person, things like emotions and gentle tugs can come through, but nothing like this.

Vaguely, Isak thinks that he shouldn’t care. He’s denied the reality of his soulmate for so long that he feels hypocritical for his sudden interest. Still, he tells himself that the thread impacts him too, and that his curiosity is purely selfish.

(Spoiler alert: he’s a fucking liar.)

He grabs his laptop and types a simple search into google. He doesn’t even have to click past the first page before he has his answer, and it leaves a sick feeling in his stomach.

Isak’s not religious, but when he slams his laptop shut and flops back against the bed, he says a prayer to whoever might be listening.

-

 **GOOGLE SEARCH:** _why is my thread trembling_

 **(TOP RESULT):** _… if your_ **_thread_ ** _is_ **_trembling,_ ** _your soulmate is in a critical state, and/or at risk of dying. The trembling sensation you are experiencing shows the vulnerability of the bond. If the thread snaps or disappears, that is sadly an indication that your soulmate has passed on, and you should contact emergency services immediately._

-

It takes two hours and twenty-seven minutes before the thread finally steadies again. Isak spends minutes staring at it with baited breath, and doesn’t fight the tears of relief when nothing more happens.

-

A week later, Isak’s mother corners him with a pair of scissors and threatens to “cut the demon” out of him. He knows that she’s referring to his thread, and though she wouldn’t be able to successfully cut _that_ , there’s a terrifying moment where he has to wonder if she’s going to hurt him instead.

It’s a shocking realization, that he’s actually scared of his mother. Marianne Valtersen has never been particularly nurturing, but she’s also never raised a hand to him before. A flash of hot white anger brews from the pit of his stomach on her behalf. She’s ill, and probably has been for a long time, and her husband was too narcissistic to get her the treatment she so desperately needs.

“Please,” he chokes out, hands trembling by his sides.

She quirks her head to one side, eyes narrowed in contemplation. There’s a vacancy about her expression that has him tasting bile.

With her free hand, she carefully cups his cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “Oh, _vennen min,_ ” she says quietly. He squeezes his eyes shut, and doesn’t so much as breathe until he hears the scissors clatter to the floor.

“I only want the best for you,” she murmurs into his hair. “Don’t you know that He is testing you? You must resist the devil.”

She presses a kiss to his forehead, and he can feel the sticky residue of her bright red lipstick. Isak exhales shakily, cracking one eye open after a tense moment. He catches sight of her just as she starts up the stairs, absolutely no sense of remorse for what she’d almost done.

It’s then that Isak decides he’s had enough. He slings his backpack over his shoulder, slips his beat up sneakers on, and walks out the front door.

He doesn’t have a plan, can’t even decipher the mess that is his mind enough to form a coherent thought, but he knows one thing for certain: he’s not going back there.

-

There’s a number of bars within walking distance of his house, but somehow Isak finds himself at the only gay bar. Maybe it’s an indirect _fuck you_ to his mother and father and every other person who’s contributed to his misery, or maybe he doesn’t care anymore.

He’s clearly underage and doesn’t even have a fake ID on him, but batting his eyes at one of the older men does the trick just as well. Before long he’s on his third beer and has downed two shots of whatever takes the ache away. The world around him is buzzing, and he lets himself be pulled to his feet by the man who’s been paying his tab tonight.

“Fuck the universe,” Isak slurs into the man’s ear. He’s got his arms slung around the guy’s shoulders, leaning on him heavily. “We’re all fucked anyways.”

“Mm,” the man hums. There’s two hands on Isak’s ass and chapped lips on his neck now. “Well, I’d be happy to fuck you tonight, doll.”

There’s nothing funny, but Isak tosses his head back and laughs anyways. They’re swaying to someone’s awful karaoke rendition of Imagine—or maybe the room is just spinning. He thinks he’s probably drunk; he’s never had more than two beers, usually with a glass of water and some sort of snack in between.

“Maybe we should head out now?” The man continues, giving Isak’s ass a squeeze. “The seats in my car go all the way back.”

“He’ll pass,” a new voice says. Isak’s head snaps over—too quickly, if the headrush that follows is any indication. It takes a moment for Isak to realize that he knows the man standing over there; or at least, he knows of him. His name is Eskild, and he’s one of Noora’s roommates.

“Come on, Isak,” Eskild continues, coming over to take him by the arm. “Let’s get you home.”

“I don’t want to go home,” Isak says quickly. It sounds more like _Idontwanttogohome,_ but he hopes Eskild gets the idea. “You can’t—can’t make me.”

Eskild pauses for a moment, eyes searching Isak’s desperate expression. Finally, he gives a curt nod. “Okay. You can sleep at mine instead.”

“You’re not the boss of him,” strange-old-rich man says, glaring harshly.

“Fuck off,” Eskild bites out. Then, before the confrontation can further escalate, he starts maneuvering Isak and himself through the crowd of drunk strangers. Part of Isak wants to protest, but a sudden bout of nausea sweeps over him and he’s too scared to open his mouth.

It’s a surprise relief when they finally make it outside, away from the smell of stale sweat and booze. He sucks in a big breath of the (somewhat) fresh city air, and Eskild finally slows them to a stop.

“Why’d you do that?” Isak asks. The words feel jumbled in his mouth. “That guy—he was my friend.”

“He was a creep,” Eskild corrects, guiding him toward the car. “Here’s a tip, baby gay: only creeps try to pick up school boys.”

“Oh,” Isak says. Then, “I think I’m going to throw up.”

Eskild yanks him toward the trash can and practically forces him over it, just in time for Isak to empty the content of his stomach. He smoothes the hair back off of Isak’s forehead through the worst of it.

-

Isak falls asleep on Eskild’s shoulder during the cab ride to the kollektiv. He doesn’t think he imagines the hand rubbing soothing little circles into his back, or the whispered promise that follows.

-

The thing is, Isak only plans to spend a few days crashing at the kollektiv. He spends the first night using his backpack as a pillow, curled up with a blanket Eskild had given him. The next night, Eskild brings him down a pillow and another blanket. The night after that, he comes home with a brand new blow up mattress, and a proper set of sheets.

By the time the other members of the kollektiv realize Isak’s been staying with them, he’s already a permanent fixture anyways.

For the first time in his life, Isak has a place to call home. He feels safe, and loved, and _accepted._ It’s a beautiful thing.

-

On the first day of his second year at Nissen, Isak feels a pull on his wrist.

He searches through the courtyard out of instinct, looking for the other end of his thread, but it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins amidst the chaos of the courtyards. He rubs at the skin there, and writes it off as nothing more than a twitch.

-

“Did you have a nice day at school?” Eskild asks at dinner, all paternal and the like.

“It was school,” Isak deadpans.

“And what does that mean?”

“It means that it was fine,” Isak says. He pointedly does not mention the tug of his thread from that morning. Eskild would blow things out of proportion, or drag him to the doctor, and that’s the last thing Isak wants.

Noora glances at him from across the table, and then refocuses her gaze on Eskild. “Eva sent me a message earlier. Apparently there’s a new boy who transferred from Bakka.”

That piques Eskild’s curiosity. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Noora nods, taking a bite of broccoli. “He’s a third year.”

Isak had heard Magnus mention the new boy earlier that day, but he hadn’t thought much of it at the time. He was preoccupied with forging his father’s signature on some class honor code bullshit one of his teacher’s handed out.

“Maybe baby gay should befriend him,” Eskild says thoughtfully.

“Eskild,” Isak sighs. Eskild holds his hands up innocently.

“I’m just saying, I bet he’d like a friend. It must be hard to transfer in your third year, he probably feels pretty alone.”

Isak stuffs a massive bite of chicken into his mouth, and forces himself to swallow around the lump in his throat.

-

At school the next day, while he’s talking with the boys about some party on Friday, the tugging of his thread persists.

The day after that, he’s standing at his locker while a group of first years a few feet away giggle about how handsome “that new kid Even Bech Næsheim” is when it happens again.

Isak feels the tugs, some stronger than others, every day.

-

He never does see Even Bech Næsheim around the halls for himself, but the name follows him like a ghost.

-

Sometimes, when Isak wishes the world would just stop spinning for a few moments, he goes to the park. It’s quiet, a far cry from the hectic afternoon of the city, and it makes him feel grounded again. There’s daisies along the edge of the path, and as he walks, Isak plucks them carefully out of the ground. When he has two handfuls, he steps off the trail and sprawls out on his stomach in the grass.

Within twenty minutes he has grass stains on his jeans, smudges of dirt on his top, and the tips of his fingers are coated in a thin layer of pollen that keeps making him sneeze. He’s plucking the petals off a daisy one-by-one and watching them drift weightless down to the grass. There’s probably a metaphor there.

“You look like someone straight from an eighties film,” an unfamiliar voice says from, behind him. Isak’s thread goes taut.

Slowly, Isak peeks back over his shoulder. There’s a boy standing on the path just a few feet back, with kind eyes and a knowing smile. He’s handsome—with a joint tucked casually behind his ear and his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket.

Isak’s gaze flicks down to his wrist when he feels a gentle tug from the thread, and though he already knows what it means, his eyes follow the thread to the pocket of the man’s jacket where the other end disappears.

This—this is his soulmate.

“‘He loves me, he loves me not,’” the boy continues, gesturing toward the daisy currently clenched in Isak’s fist. “I’ve always thought that was a waste of flowers.”

“I—” Isak starts, but abruptly stops. He doesn’t know what to say, frankly.

“I’m Even,” Even says. He’s either unbothered by Isak gaping at him, or he somehow hasn’t noticed. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“I don’t mind,” Isak says at last. His voice sounds a few octaves too deep and raspy. “I’m Isak,” he adds belatedly.

Even nods in recognition, settling down onto the grass beside him. There’s a few flowers in the space between them, ones that Isak hadn’t yet de-petaled.

“So, Isak,” Even says, and _fuck_ if Isak doesn’t like the sound of his name passing Even’s lips. “What did these flowers ever do to you?”

Isak blinks dubiously. He was expecting a _hey we’re sort of destined to be together forever_ conversation, but Even is apparently more interested in flowers. “I, uh—what?”

Even delicately lifts up one of the flowers, raising a brow as he does. “You’re destroying them. They must have pissed you off pretty badly.”

Isak really can’t tell if he’s joking. “Yeah,” he says lamely.

Silence settles between them, save for the faint sound of bird chirping above them. It eases some of the tension he hadn’t realized had built up in his shoulders.

“Are you in school?” Isak eventually finds himself asking, though he immediately wants to kick himself for it.

“Yeah,” Even’s lips tilt into a smile. “I’m in my final year at Nissen. I was at Bakka before, but. Things changed.”

“Wait, you’re _that_ Even?” Isak blurts. When Even’s expression turns to one of confusion, he adds, “I go to Nissen too. I’m in my second year.”

“I guess that’s why the thread has been tugging so much lately,” Even says, bemused. “We’ve been right on top of one another for almost a month.”

“It’s kind of weird, isn’t it?” Isak bites down onto his bottom lip thoughtfully. “That the universe would choose this moment for us to meet, instead of at school?”

“I believe in fate,” Even shrugs. He glances toward the daisy in his hand, before carefully leaning forward.

There’s a moment where Isak’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest because he thinks that Even is going to kiss him, but instead, Even reaches up to tuck the daisy behind his ear.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” Even adds, openly grinning. “And beautiful things like daisies belong on beautiful people.”

It’s cheesy, but Isak’s cheeks warm regardless. Even goes to lean back then, but Isak catches his wrist to stop him before he can.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Isak murmurs, meeting his eyes. He hopes that Even understands as his own mind flashes to _that night_ last year.

Even doesn’t respond. Instead, he places his hand over Isak’s. “Me too,” he agrees quietly.

And then the world finally does stop spinning, because they kiss. Isak isn’t sure who leans in first, but suddenly their lips are connected, moving perfectly together. There’s no sparks, no romance novel steaminess, but there’s passion and understanding and a long forgotten part of Isak comes to life.

-

Later, while the rest of Oslo sleeps, Isak and Even are curled up in bed together. Their legs are tangled and Isak’s head rests gently on his chest, with the steady thumping of his heartbeat against his cheek.

“I was nervous that the thread would be orange,” Even says softly.

“What does orange mean?” Isak asks, voice little more than a whisper. He’s seen orange threads before, but he’s never thought to look up the meaning.

Even pauses, and Isak can hear him exhale. “It means your soulmate has some mental health issues, basically.”

“Oh,” Isak says.

“I’m bipolar,” Even elaborates, though Isak didn’t ask him to. “I always figured that once I got diagnosed, the thread would change color.”

“But it didn’t,” Isak acknowledges. His eyes wander to their silver threads glimmering under the sliver of moonlight coming from his parted curtains.

“No, it didn’t,” Even presses a kiss to his temple.

Isak wets his lips, letting his hand smoothe over the duvet. “I used to hate that the thread was silver. I hated you for a while.” It feels gross to say it aloud, to admit to hating a person he knew nothing about, but he also thinks that he owes Even the honesty.

“My family… they weren’t supportive of you being a boy. They said you were a test from God, something to be ashamed of. And I spent a really long time thinking that I could change the color if I hoped hard enough. I lied to myself a lot, and it made me fucking miserable.”

Even squeezes his hand. “Do you still feel that way?”

“No,” Isak says firmly. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

-

There’s no avoiding introducing Even to Eskild the next morning. Lynn is holed up in her room and Noora is already out, but when Isak and Even leave his room looking dressed and somewhat presentable, Eskild is drinking his coffee at the table.

Eskild watches them with a knowing smirk, eyeing their interlocked hands. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Eskild, this is Even,” Isak gives Even’s hand a squeeze and pauses for dramatic effect. “My soulmate.”

“Even who goes to your school?” Eskild asks, looking ridiculously excited. “The one who _moi_ said you should befriend? That Even?”

Isak knows exactly where this is going. He groans.

“I’ve told you before, Isak! Guru knows best!” Eskild winks, stepping closer so that he can hug the both of them. “I’m very happy for you boys.”

“We’re pretty happy too,” Even says, his thumb brushing along the riches of Isak’s knuckles. Isak smiles up at him, and just because he can, leans up to peck his lips.

Eskild sighs fondly. “Young love.”

Love. Huh. Isak could get used to that. And if the way Even deepens the kiss is anything to go by, he could, too.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always appreciated :)


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